Visit with Shelly

After looking in on Everett in Edmonton for a couple hours, we drove out to Shelly's new place (well, three years since she bought it) and spent a day there before hitting the dusty trail home.

She and Scott had several conversations about various things; I forget just what, now. Why something didn't work, how to fix it, possible solutions, and so on. She took him downstairs where her industrial sewing machine is and doctored up a couple items for him, and he made an adjustment to the glass door of her fireplace so that it closed properly for the first time since she moved there. (Aside to Maggie Polito: She screamed when he did it in less than 30 seconds!) Till we arrived she'd kept it closed for three years by leaning a log against the handle rather than paying the minimum $1200 estimated by a fireplace professional for the new insert it absolutely needed. (Bastards!)

Whatever I added, she wasn't sure whether to believe it or not; I have seen this expression many, many times since we met more than 30 years ago:

A fearless do-it-yourself'er, she described some of her problems around the house and yard to the general contractor, who listened carefully and then offered his two cents:

As my sister Karen once said to me with a grin, "Kathy, he doesn't know everything!"
I know he doesn't know everything (thank god; he's cocky enough already), but dammit, he knows a lot of stuff. Guess he should, after being in the construction business for 30 years or more, and growing up on a farm before that. Farm boys know why things aren't working, and how to make them work.

Giant Rocks & Sundry

Let's get all these mountain pictures out of the way.

I think these are called Three Sisters:

Neither of us could remember this passage blasted through the rock, from our last trip:

You'd think it would be hard to forget:

One of the unnerving things about driving through the Rockies are the signs:
"Avalanche Area, No Stopping Next 900 Metres."
Then you see great hunks of rock sitting on the shoulder of the highway.

We only saw one elk, and couldn't get a good picture. Considering my sister's husband raises elk, it's not hard to see them any time we want, so I didn't try terribly hard. This fellow was making the road his own; we took photos from inside the truck:

More sights on our travels through Alberta:

One of Scott's many great-nieces; look at that sweet little dress

Shelly, with the Welcome thingy she bought at Mallard Industries when she was here in September

Road Through the Rockies

A heavy dread settles on my chest whenever we approach the Rocky Mountains. They are just so massive — so — so — formidable.

Nevertheless, I can't help but be impressed by the sheer size of them. There is no way my camera can do them justice. Also, I'm snapping these from our moving vehicle, through the window.

Scott can't resist telling, yet again, the story of his cousin Alex who came from England to visit and planned to walk through the mountain range from Banff to Jasper. As if he'd actually come out the other side ... no, no, only his bones would be found. If even those. Scott gets such a kick out of this, because obviously English mountain ranges are nothing like these.

At the end of the drive, in Kelowna, I get to see my littlest sister Joan and her family, and Dad and Grace, and our friends Roy and Gloria, and that's as many as we can comfortably fit in, in two days and three nights.

Can you tell Joan and I are sisters?

We spent hours on two afternoons sorting through Dad and Mom's photographs, as he is paring down his possessions and lightening his load.

Think I'll Go Out to Alberta

Somewhere around Drumheller (photo by Scott, who has a thing for falling-down barns)

Somewhere around Calgary

The boys're cookin' (Scott and son Gunnar)

Sheryne, puppy whisperer, with Leo on the way to his new home at my sister Joan's

A Little Gift from Heaven

Babyface, you've got the cutest little babyface.

I have never forgotten babysitting Kendra's mom, my cousin Heather. I was about 19 if I'm not mistaken (weren't you with me, Shelly?) when we stayed with her on the farm one Halloween night while my aunt and uncle were out kicking up their heels. If I recall correctly some of the local fellas nailed plywood over the doors as a "trick." Anyhoo, Heather was around the same age as little Kendra here and was the sweetest, happiest, smilingest baby I'd ever seen, or have since. Look at her there, still grinning!

Tomorrow we're off for a week's holiday to visit the rellies in Alberta and BC. This has reminded me of The Awful Fate of Melpomenus Jones. You can read about it by clicking here. We’ll avoid his end, and torturing our family and friends, by sticking with my carefully planned itinerary.


Joanne, I’ll be checking email while we’re away, so keep sending me your blog entries; I expect to be able to post them every day. Who knows, I may even manage to write up an entry or two myself.

Stalking the Great Blue Heron

The Great Blue Heron considers whether to stay or go.

Notoriously shy, if you slow your vehicle down too much when driving past, the heron will flap off. I walk past it every day and it won't stand still and let me admire it. You'd think it might get used to me a little. Stuckup bird. I was a passenger in the truck on Sunday and managed to snap this one at a distance. It's a pretty huge bird; I'm awed every time I see it.

Today the wind blew me halfway across the road a couple times. It wasn't too cold, thankfully, so my walk wasn't bad, but that wind, wow.

Regarding The Discovery of Slowness, by Sten Nadolny: "Arctic explorer John Franklin, a man whose natural pace of living and thinking is portrayed as that of an elderly sloth after a long massage and a pipe of opium. Franklin is mocked as a child, but when he reaches the Far North he finds the environment perfectly suited to his nature: a place where one takes one's time, where very little happens, and where it is important to stop and think before rushing into action." - from How to Live, or A Life of Montaigne in 20 Questions (or something). This made me think of Everett, who moves like molasses but always gets where he's going.

Now if I could just figure out a way to get that damn heron to stay put.

I had the best surprise this afternoon when my cousin Heather stopped in with her beautiful six-month-old daughter. Work? Out the window, while I kissed the baby and jabbered with her mom. Photo of her lovely little face tomorrow; tonight, my bed is calling mee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee.

Quick 'n' Dirty

It takes concentration to mow the lawn for the last time in the season.

Still no siding on the shack, but at least our minds are finally made up about the colour. It will be a pale yellow. That is, if we get it purchased before we change our minds again.

Well peeps, I was just about to climb into bed to read when I remembered no entry had yet been made today. So I'll carry on in that ever-so-pleasurable direction, and leave you with links to some other webpages worth reading.

Joanne at Trinkets and Tales is new to blogging, and has posted a poem about the changing landscape of Saskatchewan due to the re-watering of the province. You can read it here, and when you do, leave her a comment for encouragement. We all like to know someone is reading.

On the other end of the country, Shifting Landscapes is an entry about long friendships and how they are nourished and maintained— if and when they are. We aren't all good at keeping the lines of communication open, but it's usually worth it when we do.

Beasts I Have Seen

These two yearlings think they're dogs and should come along on my walks.

Usually they don't get far. They complain as they begin to lag behind, then give up, wait in the tall grass of the ditch until my return, and accompany me back into the yard as if they've been along the whole way. Alice, the orange one on the right, has turned out to be a male; he's now Alice Cooper.

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Back when I first started reading online journals, now called blogs, there was a gal who rode her bicycle to work. She called herself Firedrake or somesuch, and her entries always included a listing of the roadkill she'd seen on the highway. I wonder where that woman ended up, if she's still blogging somewhere, whether she still bikes and keeps track of the carnage along the way.

I have spared you any snapshots of the roadkill I pass on my walks. Right now there's a dead racoon that the magpies and other wildlife have only recently discovered; for the first week or two it lay there stinking to high heaven and I wondered why it remained untouched. I couldn't walk there with the dogs, for the stench. After the smell went away, we did stroll past the body and Buck Duckster III, a.k.a. Ducky the Incorrigible Deerfaced Chihuahua, immediately made as if to roll on it. I called him off and he listened, but having turned back and walked past it a few minutes later, I didn't think to keep an eye on the brat until I heard a strange squeaking and sure enough Ducky was having a heyday on the dead creature, and I guess his weight was forcing air out of it or something. You can imagine how much we enjoyed having the Duckster on our laps that night. 

Also dead on the road is a little gopher, face-up. I can't figure out what is taking the scavenger animals and birds so long to find these bodies. There were also a lot of dead garter snakes during the hot weeks of late summer, run over by vehicles. Maybe they come out onto the gravel road because it helps them shed their skins? I found a complete snake skin one day, from head to toe, or end, or whatever.

And then come September these little brown and black caterpillars appeared all over the road. I'm constantly sidestepping them.

A little internet research indicates that they are woolly bear caterpillars, out looking for a good place to hibernate. See here for more information.

How to Vanquish the Blues

The south entrance to our yard

In the night or first thing in the morning, before I'm fully awake, I sometimes feel a lonely hopeless emptiness, as if there’s no lasting meaning or value in life, as if all our efforts and struggles come to naught anyway— we die, our loved ones die, we aren't that important to anyone— but the other night Scott had been out of bed and when he came back I asked if he was all right and he said he was having trouble breathing, was stuffed up, and I put a comforting hand on him and he laid one on me— and that lonely emptiness disappeared.

Is that all it takes? A gentle concern for someone else, and their wordless appreciation of it, to vanquish the blues?

For a laugh and a lift, go read Brainie's poem today at Stubblejumpers Cafe. Click here.

Seen on the Road

Scott's cousin Darren

There isn’t too much traffic on the road where I walk, but there’s enough, especially at this busy time of year. Here’s what I imagine drivers say to themselves when they pass me out there with my doggy friends:

Former employer, now hired man for local farmer: “That girl hasn’t changed a bit in the last 20 years.” (Ha! Wishful thinking on my part; shut up, it's my blog and I'll dream if I want to.)

Farmer rushing to the field: “Bet I won’t see her out here every day when it’s 30-below.”

Darren: “I’ll stop a minute to stretch my legs and say hello so I don’t seem stuck-up.” (He told me, so I’m not imagining this one.)

Stranger: “Wonder if she needs help changing a flat tire or something.”

Woman who lives in nearest farmyard, has four youngsters and works in town full-time: “Wish I had time to go for a walk once in a while.”

Her husband: “Darn, I’ve gotta slow down. Hope that little dog doesn’t run out in front of my truck again.”

Close-up Coyote

Coyote intent on something in the ditch

Having a leisurely scratch

On my way to town yesterday afternoon I noticed a coyote pouncing on something in the ditch. I stopped the van, grabbed the camera and got out, fully expecting the wild dog to be long gone, as they usually are the moment they notice you. This little one just kept right on with its business, while I stood at the back corner of my noisy (something’s happening with the muffler) van, snapped a couple photos, and then changed the camera setting to video. At this point the creature noticed me, stood and stared back as if seeing me standing there was no shock; this is so unusual that I was prepared to bolt to the driver’s door in case it should approach me. You never know; if wild animals are rabid, they might. After a moment of awe I spoke to it. “Shouldn’t you be running away? Hm?”
It watched me for another moment and then apparently saw the wisdom of my suggestion and sauntered off as I recorded this short video:

Letter from Karen

My niece (Karen's daughter) Cara with Bacardi

Cara's dog Bacardi has lived at Karen and Dick's farm for many years, but his hips had given out over the past few weeks so he went to Cara's house in Kelvington for some special care and attention. The final trip to the vet's office was put off until it was clear that Bacardi would not improve and couldn't use his hind legs anymore. Marc is my nephew and Kade is Cara's five-year-old son. I received this email from Karen yesterday:

   Well, it's done. I went with Cara and Bacardi to the clinic this a.m. and watched and cried as Bacardi drew his last breath. Rob was nice enough to administer the two needles outside in the grass where we all felt a little more at ease. We brought Bacardi home to Marc and Michelle's and buried him in a quilt-lined box that Dick had built for him. His grave is covered with flat rocks and there is a small photo of him and Cara sitting on top.
   He was a great dog and Cara and I reminisced about a few things. She told me how Kade had been playing with Ciera (his dog) a few days ago and she growled at him (just playing) but Bacardi dragged himself between them and warned Ciera with a growl that he was not to be hurt. That was my typical Bacardi.
   I'll miss him alot—just him lying under the trampoline is a sight that I won't see again, or the familiar whining "Welcome home!" Well I truly hope he's in a better place, pain free and where the sun is always shining.

✿⊱╮✿⊱╮✿⊱╮******************************************************* ✿⊱╮✿⊱╮✿⊱╮




To see what I've been reading, check out On the Nightstand. - Stubblejumpin' Moi

How Great Thou Art

If you missed Carrie Underwood's performance of this song on a recent "tribute to women in country music" show, you missed something. Honest to God. Almost makes you want to believe in God, doesn't it? Heh. Maybe I have a soft spot for this song because we sang it as kids in vacation bible school or something, but I can't watch this video without getting all teary and I see that the audience in attendance was equally moved. Oh, and Vince Gill did a fine job too.

Church Bells and Field Suppers

My sister got her mitts on a bell from an old church, and it now hangs above the entryway of her new house, which is under construction at the Margo Lake resort development, Aurora Beach.

 When speaking to my brother out in Edmonton a couple weeks ago, I asked if he missed anything about farming, and he said "Yeah. Suppers in the field. Man, they tasted good."

See a traditional harvest field supper in Joanne's entry today. Note how the food is set up on the tailgate of the truck. The workers will stop long enough to gobble it down, and then they'll hop right back into the machinery and carry on. Click here: http://goldengrainfarm.blogspot.com/p/out-margo-way_20.html

Nose to the Grindstone

Emil wanted Shelly to see his work station.

Alas, she left yesterday morning and I am doing dishes alone once more .... And working again. It is warm/hot outside — shorts weather — and I am sitting in here with a shawl on. What can I say? Wuss.

Finished the Harvest

After a long hard day in the field, Scott brings (l to r) his uncle, cousin and brother in for chickpea stew, baking powder biscuits, chocolate fudge, and beer.

Like Sisters

Wildlife: a too-late entry for Joan's photo challenge...

Shelly arrived yesterday and so tonight we did try to get a photo of Old Friends for your current challenge, Joan, but in every picture one or the other of us had closed eyes or the pic was dark or it was always something. We'll try again while she's here.

I worked over the weekend so I could take today off just to spend hanging out with my friend of more than 30 years, and managed to keep her occupied this morning by having a leisurely breakfast, doing dishes, strolling through the flowerbeds to collect seeds for her to sow next spring, and going for a walk.

But by the afternoon she needed a project, and what was it going to be? The porch. The porch needed cleaning out badly, and she was determined to help me do it. It meant moving a bed from one room to another, moving another bed out of the porch, mucho sweeping and rearranging, and hauling of boxes and boards out to the quonset, and vacuuming, and stacking, and so on. But three hours later we were done and the porch is a new room.


Shelly's visits always remind me of Mom because when Mom would come to my house for a few days, she'd pick a room to tackle and she'd slough it out bigtime and I loved it. (Grandma used to do something similar whenever she visited Mom's house, too). It gave me a little motivation, not to mention a lot of help. The best birthday gift I ever got, I'm sure, was one time when Shelly showed up at my house and cleaned out the fridge. 

And now off I go to get rested up for tomorrow. Who knows what she will want to do then! I will need all my energy.

What's Good for the Goose

From now till June I'll have to buy all my fresh flowers from the store. Loved 'em while they lasted.

Yesterday was Scott's 52nd birthday and I was not prepared. I had no fancy supper or outing planned, no gift purchased, no card, no cake. It had actually slipped my mind for a couple days till Emil said, when he phoned Thursday night to tell me he wanted to come out to the farm this weekend, that he'd bought Scott a birthday card that plays music.

I was feeling a little guilty and trying to rouse myself into doing something special (even if that only meant wearing something sexy!), until it occurred to me to pull out a journal and see how far out of his way Scott had gone on my last birthday. It was a good idea, because I found that he'd handed me a card with $50 in it. There had been no fancy supper, no cake — he hadn't even worn anything sexy.

So I let myself off the hook. I wrote a cheque for $50, stuck it in with Emil's card, added my name, and voila! Birthday taken care of.

Bosom Buddies

Maggie, of Serendipity is Everywhere, posted a link to a performance of Sisters, which I enjoyed so thoroughly that I went and found the video above, because when I was in a musical theatre group, I did this song with another gal. I think I sang the Bea Arthur part. It's been more than 11 years, so ....

I would love to be able to sing this kind of stuff around here, but who, who, who I say will sing it with me? Who will play the piano? Who knows these songs? Who?

Julie, your package came in the mail and yesterday I put it into the CD player to listen to and forgot about it till today, when I came home from an outing with my niece and got down to the business of washing dishes. Chic Gamine, you say? I had no idea what was going to come out of the speakers, but in only a moment I was dancing and singing along. Now that is the way to do dishes. It makes them a halfway pleasant pastime. Thanks for the treat.

The headsup about the gospel workshop in Saskatoon also arrived via email. I'll be there, for sure. Hoped to be accompanied by my sister Karen but alas the dates don't work for her this time either.

And now, my farmboy has called with a request that I make a beer run before 6 o'clock and rustle up supper for four hungry men to devour when they get off the combines and out of the grain trucks in a couple hours. So off I go to town for the second time today, racking my brain: What should I make? I could pick up a roasted chicken from the Co-op, he tells me. That feels like cheating! Heh.

Better get a move on and figure it out on the way.

From Grandma's Collection of Pitchers (not the ball-playing type)

We awoke this morning to heavy frost on the grass. The brown-eyed susans, portulaca, cosmos and gazanias are toast, but the sweetpeas are still hangin' in there somehow.

It's time it turned cold, isn't it? There seemed to be lots of complaining about it on the program I listen to when my radio alarm comes on at 7. Lord, people, dress for the weather and suck it up! At least today the hellish wind isn't blowing hard, as it had for the previous two days. That nasty biting wind turned me around and kept me in the house, feeling lethargic. I didn't walk yesterday because of it (Dress for it, and suck it up! Practise what I preach!), and the day before I waited till the wind settled down, thus walking at sunset, not the safest time (but quite lovely) as it's difficult for motorists to see me on the gravel road. Yesterday I wondered if I should put long underwear on (couldn't bear the thought of ski pants, which I wear all winter, in September) and didn't, but could've and wouldn't've regretted it. Today I wore the long underwear and was glad, even though it was a warmer day. Long underwear in September! It doesn't seem right. Oh wait— is this complaining?

Note: Goddamn dog (Sara, who visits occasionally in case I'm going for a walk) caught a duck while we were out this afternoon. I hollered till she dropped it, but it was in water and I wasn't wearing rubber boots, so couldn't go see if it needed help. The duck slunk away (as much as ducks can slink) with its neck low over the water but didn't look very good. Goddamn dogs, anyway. I love 'em, but sometimes I hate 'em.